An Open Letter to the Churro Eating Public

Buenas noches.

You may recognize me from the festival where I volunteered in the food booth. Yes, I am he.

I am the Churro King.

I worked for three hours cooking churros for you. The first dozen or so were kinda fun. Cooking them, rolling them in sugar and cinnamon, hanging them in the rotating box. And it was fun to see people happily indulging their sweet tooths for a good cause, enjoying the works of my hands.

The next hundred or so... not as much fun. Law of diminishing returns and such.

Then you started buying them in big handfuls. One guy bought four of them. Another ten. Another carried away fourteen. Presumably to share, but I didn't have time to ask.

Because I was making more churros.

At one point, I felt like George Bailey in the savings and loan in It's a Wonderful Life, trying to stem the tide of people mobbing our booth in search of churros. Clinging to the hope that the churros would start reproducing on their own so I could relax.

By the time I got past two hundred-something churros, I was in a catatonic daze. I smelled like churros, I had sugar and cinnamon in my pockets and down my shirt, my fingers were sore from pulling hot churros out of the oven. I know last night I joked about working the churro station. But it was only a joke.

So please. To the public. From the man the food booth crew nicknamed the churro king...

No mas. Please. I don't want to make any more churros. For the love of all that's holy, no more churros. I'm throwing in the towel.

And I hate that after two showers, I still smell like churros. Heavy is the head that wears the churro crown....